


baby, we're the new romantics

by aflashofgreen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Pride and Prejudice Fusion, Alternate Universe - Regency, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, F/M, Family Dynamics, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Minor Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Romance, i cannot stress enough that there is NO historical accuracy here, i put the gay rights in the classic literature... and the lemon cakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28927113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aflashofgreen/pseuds/aflashofgreen
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that next to pride, only first impressions are half as stubborn.Or: Daenerys is new in the neighborhood and a little awkward. Sansa fancies her mind made up for distaste. Sparks fly anyway.
Relationships: Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. let the games begin

**Author's Note:**

> I am both excited and more than a little apprehensive to be posting this. This AU has been in my head since GoT concluded pretty much. It goes without saying I am no Jane Austen, but big shoutout to her for writing Pride and Prejudice and the unfinished Sanditon. Both novel and 2005 film adaptation of the former as well as the 2019 show based on the latter are the primary inspirations for this fic. I also quote and paraphrase PaP liberally throughout. Title is from New Romantics by Taylor Swift.
> 
> Much love to my friend, dollfacerobot (check out her fics!), for always enabling me.
> 
> This work is unbeta'd and English is not my first language so I apologize in advance for any errors.

“Ladies, may I introduce you to my old friends, Mr Robb Stark, and his sisters, Miss Sansa Stark and Miss Arya Stark,” Theon spoke over the band, gesturing to each sibling in turn. True to any good ball, the music was playing loudly, transporting happy dancers around the assembly room. Everyone from town and the neighboring villages was in attendance tonight. There was scarce any space left, and their little group stood close together while introductions were being made. Newcomers, wealthy ones and unmarried at that, were always sure to draw attention.

They all politely bowed their head.

“The famous Sansa,” Theon’s sister drawled, a critical eye unabashedly turned on Sansa. “I’ve heard plenty about you over the years.”

More than their similarity in countenance, lean and dark-haired as Theon and Asha both were, their relation was written in the lines of the wicked smile Miss Greyjoy wore as she carried on with her bold appraisal of Sansa. Even so, there was little doubt that the sister’s disposition was more serious than the brother’s, though that couldn’t be considered an accomplishment. While Asha tried to decide whether the woman before her measured up to whatever account Theon had provided her with, Sansa for her part was starting to understand what the latter had meant when he’d described his sister as dull as the circus. One could only imagine what string of words he’d applied to Sansa in his letters.

Robb must have been making a face behind her for Theon’s next words were, “Do not fret, my dear, it is only so because I couldn’t leave written proof of our exploits. My correspondence is worthless anyway.” He waved a hand as if dismissing the matter for what it was — inconsequential. Sansa would be vexed if she didn’t know the man better. Instead, she offered Miss Greyjoy a patient smile.

“Nothing half as lovely as this praise, I expect.”

“I’ve also heard the Starks and Targaryens are old acquaintances.” Miss Greyjoy looked back to her silver-haired companion who had remained silent so far. “Don’t you share kin, Dany?”

“Jon Snow, as you are well aware.”

Faces have kept turning in Miss Targaryen’s direction since she made her entrance at the assembly with the Greyjoys. Before Theon had remembered his manners and made introductions, Sansa had looked on as Daenerys spun for a couple dances, a perfect blur of ivory. Her manners always well-bred gave no outward indication of any displeasure, but contained in them a stilted quality at odds with the setting of a ball for they failed in being inviting. Asha’s laugh, like everything else it seemed, had flown freely all through the evening. If Daenerys Targaryen had done more than give the occasional polite smile to a dancing partner or other guest at any time, Sansa had missed it in her careful observation. Presently, the petite woman’s expression was merely placid, the light color which appeared on her cheeks at her friend’s words the only hint of some emotion, though no warmth could be detected in her voice when she spoke.

“Our cousin,” Arya interjected, then, on the defensive. She too had picked up on Miss Targaryen’s tone.

It would not do to quarrel with Jon’s relative in any context, however, so Sansa added, “Although we haven’t been formally introduced to his aunt until now,” trying to dissipate the tension with some forced joviality.

She wasn’t familiar with the Targaryen family, her knowledge not extending beyond what she could infer over the years from Jon’s few comments:

They were rich.

They had white blond hair.

They cared only about themselves.

They looked at Jon with disappointment, wishing he were something other than what he was. Sansa didn’t rightly know what that other referred to. Perhaps it was a matter of his gentle nature or lack of self-importance. Perhaps it related to something as stupid and vain as his Stark looks. The result was the same — Jon had little patience for them and Sansa was inclined to understand why.

All the same, she spotted nephew and aunt sharing a brief conversation later in the evening. One would have been hard pressed to witness any warmth between them then either.

Later still, when Sansa had had her fill of dances and found her closest friend, Brienne Tarth, again, they happily exchanged all the new knowledge concerning tonight’s special guests they’d each accumulated. Brienne recounted overhearing Miss Targaryen mistake her name for Sarra, and then shut down Asha’s suggestion to ask the eldest Stark sister for a dance by declaring Sansa looked tolerable for a country girl.

Thus, her character was decided that night. Daenerys Targaryen was the proudest, coldest, most fastidious woman in the world.

* * *

“Can I attend the next ball?”

“Did you turn sixteen overnight?” Catelyn Stark countered back.

“I will in eight months!” Bran protested.

“And we shan’t speed the clock. Your mother and I have already run out of eyes to keep track of your older siblings. Your brother certainly provides no support. Do you plan on helping, Bran?” A mumble was the only answer to their father’s teasing. “Better luck with Rickon perhaps.”

The youngest Stark gave a toothy grin, eager to prove his maturity, right before trying to feed Shaggydog some of his bacon under the table. Sansa stopped him in time.

“You’re too harsh on them, Papa,” Robb commented lightly, reaching for more bread. “Or us. Everyone was on their best behavior last night, I the first among us for all the good it served. Asha Greyjoy was more interested in Sansa.”

Two people spoke at the same time.

“Did she pester you very much, my love?” Catelyn asked kindly.

“What is she like?” Bran was eager to know.

“A little. She’s not so different from Theon, really,” Sansa answered to both, gesturing for her sister to pass the butter.

“Far more sociable than her pompous friend,” Arya added as she did so.

“It is of no consequence. They both got what they wanted from me, I imagine.” One’s curiosity was satiated, the other simply never had any to begin with. “I doubt we shall ever speak again.”

“Would you like to rethink that?” This prompted a crease to appear between Sansa's brows, with Jon revealing the women had been extended an invitation to dine at Winterfell along with Theon soon. “Dany said to pass along her thanks again.”

“It was before your edict,” Catelyn addressed her daughter. “Though if your father can be so gracious to host Miss Targaryen here for the length of three courses, the rest of you will behave.”

Unaffected by the singularity of a Targaryen under Ned Stark’s roof, Robb was delighted by the news of Asha’s coming for dinner, confiding after breakfast he was confident this went beyond neighborly hospitality and was proof their father was seriously considering Theon for a son-in-law.

“What about you, Jon? Short of excitement, you raise no objection?” Sansa enquired.

“I think we can safely follow your mother’s advice for one afternoon. Lord knows I’ve endured worse company for longer.”

Sansa could easily picture it too, though by no means did it change the prospect of spending time in his aunt’s presence into a pleasant one. Naturally, it was unavoidable, dinner or not.

At a party at the Tyrells', Margaery tried to pair her off in a dance with Miss Targaryen. Sansa was at least glad for the opportunity to be the one to turn down Daenerys this time, who was there to hear her do so, though it was done in a subtle manner that masked her indifference for the woman as simple tiredness. In fact, she did it so well, Daenerys struggled to find objections to a growing interest for Miss Stark, which a lesser attention to diplomacy on Sansa’s part might have helped smother. She gave an attempt regardless, for she very much disliked being contradicted even when the contradiction came from herself and concerned merely another’s looks. Indeed, the more she saw of Sansa, the more Daenerys found that her complexion was glowing and only complimented by her dark copper hair that shone as bright as a flame, and could not help but admire her posture.

Of the other’s true feelings, both women would remain blissfully unaware for the longest time.


	2. we're not trying

“What does Miss Targaryen mean by coming to dinner and not speaking ten words?”

In the spirit of giving their father the consideration of an uneventful afternoon, and with the double merit of assisting Robb towards the completion of his happiness, Sansa had offered herself as the sacrificial lamb yesterday, taking a seat next to Miss Targaryen at the table. Mama had mostly led the conversation through dinner as Daenerys had been little inclined to contribute beyond giving succinct answers to questions she’d been addressed.

“Perhaps Lord Eddard’s disinclination for her brother was the source of some anxiety?” Brienne offered.

Sansa would not deny that the circumstances which preceded Jon’s birth — Rhaegar Targaryen being a married man who had taken off with Lyanna Stark — had left the latter’s brother with great resentment towards his nephew’s surviving parent. Papa was too sensible to extend his grievance against Lord Targaryen to the man’s sister too, who was of an age with Jon, but he had never sought to maintain a relationship, let alone a friendship, with anyone bearing the Targaryen name as a result. Jon’s upbringing had been left to his Stark uncle and, as far as Sansa knew, her father had never done more than share the most minimal and perfunctory correspondence with Rhaegar throughout his bastard son’s childhood, and had only done so for Jon’s sake.

If Daenerys thus possessed any awareness of Lord Stark’s forbearance in welcoming her to Winterfell, she had made no mention. Perhaps she felt it was owed to her and not anything notable, Sansa thought, though if she had not been staying at Harrenhal with the Greyjoys, Sansa had little doubt her father would never have extended to Miss Targaryen any invitation to socialize.

“Father was very cordial. He took the time to converse with her when we withdrew to the drawing room. I assure you she did not look self-conscious in the least.”

“Only mute?”

Sansa could not help her laugh. “Oh, how taciturn she is! I might have blamed it on boredom, but she seemed very interested by what was taking place at the other end of the table.”

It was ever impossible to tell what Papa’s thoughts were, but conversation had been fluid as he had got acquainted with Asha. Sansa knew Robb and Theon were both eager for him to look agreeably on the eldest Greyjoy, who stood to inherit the senior Mr Greyjoy’s spot at the top of his successful shipping venture upon his death. Fondness was not the goal so much as clarity to the fact that Miss Greyjoy, involved in her father’s affairs since her majority, was an industrious woman, and that it may reflect positively on Theon to have such a relation, no matter how it underlined his own lack of interest in business matters.

Robb had first made Theon’s acquaintance as young boys attending the same boarding school with Jon. The three of them had then gone on to receive a most excellent education at Oxford. Upon Robb and Jon’s homecoming, and with Theon settling in a neighboring property to Winterfell, the infatuation which tied him to Sansa’s older brother and which was fully returned had soon become apparent to everyone. And yet, the two of them might have been better served had Theon travelled home to sharpen the skills he’d acquired at university, at least in getting Lord Stark to look favorably at their desired union when the time came. For Robb’s sake, Sansa hoped this current scheme of theirs might help matters along now better than three years of neighborly acquaintance had.

“When I was lucky to catch Miss Targaryen’s eye,” Sansa continued, “she promptly withdrew her own. Even to Jon, who sat in front of her, she said very little.”

All these Christmases her cousin had been required to spend at Dragonstone had not done much by way of attachment between the two, it had become apparent. If this was how Daenerys behaved everywhere, Sansa was left to wonder how she had struck up a friendship with Asha in the first place.

“Does this mean you won’t be attending the ball at Harrenhal?”

“You know me to be too fond of dancing to let anyone’s bad humor chase me away from a ballroom. Besides, Theon is the one hosting, of course, and the house is big enough and will undoubtedly be very full that I need not be in Miss Targaryen’s proximity.” Sansa gave her friend a smile, satisfied by her own answer.

Just as she was done talking, Mr Tarth walked into the room and the two women rose from their seats, Sansa bowing her head at Brienne’s father.

“How do you do, Miss Sansa?” he politely inquired. Another man, younger and taller, appeared next to him, clad in finer clothes than anyone else present.

“Very well, sir.”

“I am sorry to intrude on you, ladies, but it is nearly time for dinner. You are very welcome to stay,” he said to Sansa. “Mr Lannister here will be joining us as well.”

“Lannister?” There was a name Sansa had not expected to hear. She was no longer surprised at his state of dress, though the golden hand she spotted attached to his right wrist when he stepped forward still caught her eye. She quickly recovered and bowed to him.

“I’m sure I would recall such a pretty face,” said Mr Lannister, “yet you seem to know me, miss.” Despite her own behavior, his was a bolder way of addressing a stranger, but Sansa noted to herself it was the second time in a short while she had been confronted to bold people.

“No, not at all. My apologies, sir.”

Mr Tarth then introduced them properly to each other, and Sansa excused herself again, eager to return home and share the news of this third arrival in the neighborhood. Poor Papa, she thought as she strode towards Winterfell. Fate could not have better plotted to bring north people from families he despised.

* * *

“You certainly look very dashing tonight, Dany,” commented Asha as she joined her friend where she was leaning against the banister, out of the way of the activity downstairs. Theon’s voice caught his sister's ear, and Asha glanced down idly as he came into view, busy directing the footmen as they put on the last touches for tonight’s ball.

“Thank you. I was inspired by you, of course,” Dany replied, taking a step back to better allow her a look at her outfit. “I was fitted when we were in King’s Landing, before making our journey here.” She had been curious to try the dress pants, waistcoat and overcoat attire that Asha favored. It was the most recent fashion amongst women, though not awfully popular yet for how it was undoubtedly modeled after menswear, even though the overall cut had been given a feminine touch.

“And you hope to impress someone with it? Apart from me, that is.”

“I merely wish to wear my new clothes. You’d do well not to share your wrong assumptions with anyone else,” Dany warned. “I came here a bachelor and intend to leave as one.”

Asha gave a booming laugh. “Dear me! How fortunate then marriage is not a prerequisite to having fun. My foolish brother and his antics even provide us with the perfect occasion to indulge.”

Dany smiled conspiratorially, following Asha’s glance over the balustrade. She knew very well with whom her friend hoped to engage in such fun.

“I won’t stand in your way so long as you don’t stand in mine.”

* * *

“Well done, Theon. This is simply stunning,” Arya praised him explicitly, while Lord and Lady Stark where within earshot, to which Sansa took no offense, knowing all credit must be awarded to their host.

She had been quite happy when, upon announcing his intention to give a ball, Theon had asked for her opinion. Making repeated visits to Harrenhal in the past three weeks with the object of assisting him in how to style the place and what buffet to serve for this very night, she had made her recommendations, and was pleased by the result tonight too. How she longed for the day she would have full authority over her own household, and could hold as many parties as she’d like! Her guests would be decidedly more congenial than Theon’s, she thought, one particular face floating in her mind.

One afternoon, as Sansa had been going through the prospective menu with the cook and indulged herself by adding lemon cakes to the list, Miss Targaryen had walked into the kitchen to order tea. She had stood facing Sansa awkwardly afterwards, and feeling Daenerys was battling with herself to invite her along, Sansa had saved them both before civility won out by declaring she was on her way out soon. On another morning, she had found herself sitting in the drawing room for a half-hour as she waited for Theon to return from an errand, and though Daenerys joined her early on, armed with a book of her own, neither’s gaze had ever strayed from their respective pages. Chancing a quick look around her now, Sansa noted pleasantly Miss Targaryen was not in sight.

As a way to thank her for her help, Theon led Sansa in her first dance before returning to the company of her brother. At a ball, it was not awfully difficult to find partners, however, and Sansa was never long still. She simply adored dancing. She had taken great care of her appearance tonight, for she was very fond of dressing up too, and was satisfied by the feel of her skirts twirling around her legs as her body twisted from one motion to the next. If only there was someone charming present too who might tempt her into amorous intentions. Sansa was a great romantic, but it had often been remarked to her she was in love with love itself, and too easily led by the mere idea of romance. Or in Arya’s words, quite silly. There had been a disastrous acquaintance with a Miss Stone two springs ago during a visit to their Aunt Lysa in the Vale, and ever since, Sansa had endeavored to be more curious in determining someone’s character before giving any indication of romantic interest.

The only person here whom Sansa did not know intimately yet, though all she could feel was indifference for him, her father’s disinclination notwithstanding, was Jaime Lannister. He attempted to remedy their lack of familiarity by asking her to dance at one point, revealing himself as very arrogant and proud despite his good looks in the process.

“Not despite,” Brienne remarked as they discussed afterwards. “Because of them,” she added, though Sansa could not rightly tell why she looked so amused. “Speaking of proud, good-looking people, you should know Miss Targaryen was observing you as you danced.”

“Then I’m sure she’ll be happy to find out Mr Lannister holds no interest to me, and she’s at leisure to court him. They are very similar, wouldn’t you say? I don’t doubt they’ll get on together splendidly.”

But even though it had been said in jest, it seemed Sansa was mistaken in who Daenerys might desire to woo.

Surprise was her first reaction when eventually spotting Miss Targaryen later in the night, Sansa took in her appearance, not immediately noticing with whom Daenerys was conversing. When her eyes drifted away from where they had lingered on strong thighs, Sansa observed it was Margaery, taking notice of how close together they stood and the hushed tones they shared.

Not long after, Mr Tyrell approached Sansa while she got some refreshment, wondering whether she had seen his daughter for he wished to introduce her to Mr Lannister. Sansa was not surprised by this news; Mr Tyrell was very eager to see Margaery settled with a rich spouse, though whether his daughter shared his enthusiasm to be wed was less certain. Recalling the scene she had witnessed earlier, and unable to immediately locate Margaery or Miss Targaryen again, Sansa simply answered no. She would never chance exposing a friend to gossip, or worse, a parent’s wrath.

* * *

In a bid to rest her feet for a moment, Sansa played the harp for a while, smiling as she was met with praise from the small crowd that had gathered by the time she was finished. When she rose from her chair, she endeavored to find Jon to drag him into the next dance, for she knew nothing less could bring him to participate in the intended activity of a ball. Her quest was cut short, however, when Miss Targaryen suddenly appeared before her, and Sansa found herself listening to the woman apply for her hand. So stunned was she that she could do nothing short of granting her request.

As they took their first steps as dancing partners, Sansa was resolved not to speak, till fancying that it would be the greater punishment to Daenerys to oblige her to talk, she made some sly observation about the general splendor.

“You may well congratulate yourself on your vision,” Miss Targaryen replied, but added nothing more, prompting Sansa to smile despite herself. Her quip had found its audience.

“Pray tell, how does yours vary?”

An eyebrow was raised. “Am I a critic now?”

“We’re only comparing taste in decor. If you would rather we discuss some common interest, you must suggest a topic yourself for I lack the awareness of one.”

“Do you talk as a rule while dancing?” Daenerys inquired instead.

“I'm trying to make out your character. You don’t speak at dinners nor in more casual settings. I thought to have better luck perhaps while we are currently engaged.” To Sansa’s surprise, this comment elicited a laugh from her partner.

“I ought to talk your ear out now, if only to prove you wrong as to the picture I can imagine you have painted in your mind of my character,” said she.

“No, miss. As I have revealed, I struggle to form an opinion. You appear differently to different people.”

“Someone told you so?”

“I observed it myself,” Sansa corrected the assumption. “And in that case, I might be so bold to deduce context is not your issue, so much as company.”

“What would that make of you?” Daenerys asked in good humor. “In your own words, I am reluctant to converse in your presence, yet here we found ourselves.”

“Indeed, it is very puzzling. Not least because you asked me to dance.” Of all the remarks she had paid her, for this to be the one that should make Miss Targaryen’s temperament turn aloof again was unexpected. Too lost in her own thoughts, Sansa did not press her further, allowing their conversation to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone cares to know, I refrained from naming the property Theon is renting Pyke because I figured that should be the name of Asha’s residence. My thinking is also that Theon won’t be staying there forever anyway, in which case Harrenhal presented itself as the perfect name for a temporary house that welcomes many tenants through its walls. Not to mention, the curse. It doesn’t exist in this story, but it’s funny to think about it considering how unlucky Robb and Theon have been so far in getting married.


End file.
